Scary

The embalming fluid floated in a fluted flask on top of the freezing table
next to the stiff and chill-filled corpse, which was understandably unable
to dissect the details regarding its righteously ripe, rigor mortised remains
over which the methodical mortician held high his rigorously rigid reins.

The nervous night was ludicrously late but not too late to have to abort
the perfectly precise postmortem plans of the meticulous mortician, Mort,
who contemplated the cold carcass under the full moon’s high-beam light,
which so iridescently illuminated the corpse’s considerably creepy plight.

The mortician inserted tubes into the cadaver to drain its lifeless blood,
executing extreme efficacy to circumnavigate a bloody, behemoth flood.
Beneath each thick and tensile tube, he securely situated a sturdy pail
for the exceedingly rare but egregious event, the trustworthy tubes did flail.

After the corpse’s blood had been delicately drained and duly collected,
he then the precious pails with poised, painstaking precision inspected.
With the blood’s pomegranate patina, Mort appeared adequately pleased,
so he next, the remaining blood from the tubes systematically squeezed.

Not one delicious, decadent drop of this exquisite elixir could be wasted,
as this ripe, rich rendering would deliver divine drinks after being tasted
by the voracious vampires, whose lusty thirst was quickly quenched
when their throbbing throats with fertile blood were decadently drenched.

The vampires’ hidden home existed far beneath the wooden floor,
whose smooth and seamless surface concealed a secret trapdoor.
By a rustic red rug, the trickster trapdoor had been cleverly covered,
ensuring that the blood imbibers were not at risk of being discovered.

Inside craftily customized coffins, they silently slept away their days,
dipped in dreamy, delicious darkness that detested the sun’s bright rays.
But as soon as daylight ducked beneath a new night that flawlessly fell,
the coffin lids erupted, and vampire mouths soon began to swell.

1

Barbara Eck Tosi

After the trapdoor was lustily lifted, the vampires eagerly emerged
and wildly walked across the floor as their tenacious thirst swiftly surged
from their tantalizing thoughts of the rapturously ripe, ruby-red libations
that would serve to sweetly satisfy their beastly and bloody expectations.

Mort poured and poetically presented this crimson-colored concoction
in a prized punch bowl he had purchased at a For Morticians Only auction.
Poised punch cups perched on hooks hanging from the red-stained rim
of the antique bowl arranged on a table in the tasting room, deathly dim.

The perfectly positioned punch cups coaxed the greedy, gruesome grip
of the vampires, whose large, loose, and lurid lips would satisfyingly sip
and gulp, guzzle, and guiltlessly gorge on this necessary necrotic nectar,
made so smooth and sumptuous by passing through a particle detector.

After the vampires lewdly licked the punch bowl and punch cups clean,
they formed a long line that led directly to Mort’s indoor latrine.
Each of them wearily waited for the opportunity to expeditiously expel
the luscious liquid that quickly caused their bladders to severely swell.

After unleashing ubiquitous urine, blatantly bloody and royally rich,
they dripped their drool as they dipped their cups into a designated niche
of the latrine and drank the urine, which was again later excreted
after barbaric binge-drinking bouts that were with regularity repeated.

The blood they initially imbibed temporarily satisfied their twisted thirst,
until which time, Mort magically managed some additional arteries to burst
inside the hushed, blue-blushed, caustically cold and creepy cadaver,
whose bountiful blood unfailingly filled each vampire’s mouth and bladder.

Out of Mort’s open office door, the revamped vampires willingly went,
anxiously anticipating the deeply dark hours that would shortly be spent
inside grisly, growling graveyards and on the horrifyingly haunted trail,
where scary, sanguinary spirits were known to moan and woefully wail.

2

SCARY

Before morning captured its clandestine chance to light their dismal path
and disastrously deliver its blindingly bright and wickedly white wrath
to Mort’s office, the vivacious, voracious vampires reluctantly returned,
and Mort suddenly something unusually unsettling about them discerned.

As they began to nerve-numbingly notice the needlessly neglected shelves,
they alarmingly appeared not in the least to be their bubbly, bloody selves.
They believed that Mort had been disrespectfully derelict in his restocking
of bottles of blood that bolstered their bite and nefarious nighttime walking.

The vindictive vampires failed to fathom that, in the adjoining room,
boxes brimming with bottled blood were boldly waiting to assume
their proper places on sacred shelves that now sat brazenly bare
because Mort’s nap had lasted longer than any of them were aware.

With transparent tenseness, they thanked Mort in their vampiric way
for faithfully feeding their fabled fetish for fresh blood from dead prey.
They falsely flattered him on his fixation to furnish them sweet peace
by endlessly ensuring that their dark desires dramatically found release.

They then insolently indicated to him that he’d grown forgetful and old
and appeared troubled and tired and lamentably lacked the beastly bold
grip that he over this bountiful bed-and-bloodfest had hypnotically held
and explained that the time had arrived for his useless life to be quelled.

After they mercilessly mocked Mort for running out the reservoir of blood,
their thorny teeth pierced his neck, and he fell to the floor with a thud.
He was very dead, so they opened the trapdoor and descended the stairs
and promptly proceeded to the protected privacy of their loathsome lairs.

Into their macabrely menacing coffins, the vampires predictably climbed,
and with their herculean hands that were bloodied and seriously slimed,
they easily enabled the cob-webbed covers to readily release and drop.
Then they drifted into deep sleep and dreamt about blood nonstop.

3

Barbara Eck Tosi

On the upstairs wooden floor, Mort lay chillingly cold and motionless,
as he morbidly marinated in his pathetically premature postmortem abyss
outside the adjoining room, where big boxes of beauteous blood waited
for Mort’s attentive action that would forever remain radically belated.

The next day a new mortician would arrive at the site and officially be
designated to drain the blood from incoming cadavers’ every artery.
Mort’s corpse, of course, would be tubed first, so his blood could flow

and
fill
punch
bowls
for
the
vengeful
vampires
that
quietly
waited
below.